Breaking Point (6 page)

Or a hard knock. I tapped. No answer. I called, “Hello?”

The door creaked open. David stood, looking neat as ever, neater even, in his Gate uniform polo and pants. Except where there had been only scars from his various piercings, now he wore jewelry, cheek rings, earrings, nose rings, all glinting in the afternoon sun.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Sorry?” The word twisted around, mocking. “For what?”

“About Trouble. I'm sorry for what happened.”

“Why? Did you do it?”

“No. I mean, of course not.”

“Then, don't be sorry.” His mottled face was angry now. “You are the one person who should not be sorry.”

“What do you mean? They didn't all do it.”

“Didn't they?” He held up a hand. “You know there's a kid here who, every afternoon at three, pisses on the tile of the second-floor boys' room so my dad has to mop it before he can go home?”

That sounded crazy. “Sometimes people … miss.”

“Every day, same time, under the sink.”

I shook my head.

“And someone else leaves dead rats by the cafeteria door, mornings, for my mom to find. And someone else breaks windows here, usually in the rain. And his friend, who tears my uniform shirts in half during P.E. class. Or the other guy who…” David stopped, brushed hair from his eyes. “… who kills my dog … and leaves his head on my doorstep.” He glanced down, red-faced, as if expecting to see it again.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry!” A shriek. He started to slam the door, slowed, and said, “You take world history?”

“Sure.” Actually, I'd read it at home with Mom.

“In Nazi Germany, people who reported their neighbors to the Gestapo—were they innocent?”

“Of course not.”

“How about the ones who helped Hitler gain power?”

“Um, I guess not. No. They weren't innocent.” He sounded crazy. But I'd probably be the same if they'd done that to me.

“And how about the other ones, the ones who stood by, watched it? The ones who said, ‘I'm not Jewish, thank God, so I don't have to worry.' Were they?”

I stared at my feet. “No. No, I guess not.”

“Well, by that assessment, you're the only person here who's innocent. Everyone else—they spend their days thanking God they aren't me. If they even think about me at all.”

“How do you know I don't?”

“Because you'll be next.”

I didn't want to think about that. “Well,” I said. “I'm sorry anyway.”

“Don't worry about it. It was just another mess for my father to clean.”

That week in chapel, the choir sang “By the River” and Reverend Phelps sermonized about “Whatsoever Ye Do Unto the Least of My Brothers, Ye Do Unto Me.” David wasn't there. I thought about him, though. All the time. Even as I left my usual messages for my father. Maybe especially then.

When I came in from P.E. the day after I talked to him, I found my uniform shirt outside my locker on the bench. Someone had cut it in half, neatly down the middle.

I remembered what David had said:
You'll be next
.

I knew it was true.

Friday. Another pep rally after school. We were playing John the Baptist High, so all over school, cheerleaders posted signs proclaiming,
BEHEAD JOHN THE BAPTIST
or
BAPTISM BY FIRE
until Principal Meeks made Old Carlos take them down.

I didn't go. Didn't walk around campus, either. It seemed wrong, with no prospect of running into David and Trouble, so it was back to the computer lab. I didn't care what Mom said.

The trailer they used for a computer lab was the only place I felt comfortable at Gate anymore. Its hollow floors thumped and echoed when you walked. That day, it was empty, as usual. The stink of someone's lunch filled the air. Bologna. I signed in, turned on the light, chose a station away from the window. I still heard the shrieks and cheers through the walls. I logged onto AOL and scrolled through the member-created rooms. I barely heard the door open. Whoever it was didn't stop to sign in. He walked, silent as a soldier, across the loud floors and took the station ahead of mine. I chose the Teen Truth or Dare room. I didn't look up. I didn't know anyone. I didn't want to know anyone.

Beep
. From the other computer.

I kept typing.

Beeeeeep!

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
The aggravated sound of someone repeatedly pressing keys when the computer refuses to obey.

A voice. “Shit!”

I looked up, surprised. It was Charlie Good.

“Little help here?” he said.

He'd abandoned his efforts. The room was silent, except the buzz of fluorescent lights.

“I hear you're something of a computer aficionado.”

“Aficionado?”
Strange word. Charlie didn't even talk like other people.

“It means someone who's a devotee of something. And
devotee
means—”

“I'm okay at it.”

Charlie leaned his chair back, swung first one leg, then the other onto the table, rocking at a ninety-degree angle to the floor. “Care to assist a friend?”

“With what?”

With his head, he indicated I should sit beside him. A high-and-mighty junior talking to a sophomore. His face said this was a privilege he was granting me. Then, a raised eyebrow. Charlie's patience was wearing thin. After all, he'd invited me into his world. I should accept gratefully.

I did. I stood, wearing my enthusiasm like a slogan on a sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”

“Research paper. Guess I'm not enough of a computer geek to work this program.”

For the next hour, I, Paul Richmond, sat beside Charlie Good and taught him to do computer research. A skeptic would say I did the research for him. But I wasn't a skeptic that day. If Charlie Good, for all his brilliance, couldn't formulate a query, pull up a search result, or print it out, I should help. Maybe Charlie would do something for me someday.

For the moment, I'd settle for a compliment. “Go, Einstein,” he said when I—we—finished.

“Thanks.” Trying not to look too pleased. I wanted to ask why he wasn't at the pep rally. But I didn't. It would be too strange.

He read my thoughts. “I sent St. John and Meat to some juvenile tribal rite. This place has too many pep rallies.” He leaned forward, smiling. “Besides, I want to talk to you.”

Me?
But I said, “About what?”

“How do you like Gate?”

I almost laughed. “Fine.”

“Liar.” Charlie smiled. “You think we're all the same, Neanderthal jocks or rich brats. Probably think I'm both. Don't deny I'm right.”

I said nothing.

“But things aren't always as they seem. Someone smart as you should know that.”

“I didn't say—”

“You didn't have to. I don't blame you.” Charlie slammed his chair legs to the floor, his own feet following. “But you're wrong.”

A roar from outside. The pep rally must have been ending. “Wrong about—”

“You think I don't know you.” Charlie said. “There are things about you I couldn't possibly understand. Secret things.” The outside noise had stopped, and there was just Charlie's voice and my breathing. “You think I don't know you jack off at night and wonder if you'll always be alone.”

I tried not to start, tried not to let him know he was right.

He continued. “You think I don't know that your parents split up last year and, since then, you've tried to be a good son. But really, when your mother talks to you, it makes your skin crawl and you feel like, next time she touches you, pulls a hair out of her head, cries … you might beat her brains in.”

Part of me wanted to leave. It was weird, him knowing this stuff. Creepy. Like he'd been watching me. But my eyes felt frozen to him. “How do you—?”

“Am I wrong?”

I shook my head. He gestured toward the racket at his feet. “Know why I play tennis?”

Stupid question. He was a star at tennis.

“I play because Charles Senior—my father—because Big Chuck never made the pros, so I have to. He's been teaching me since before I could walk.”

“That's nice.”

“Is it?” Like it was the first he'd considered it. “Guess so. Guess it's nice when someone gives you responsibility for his hopes and dreams without your permission. And it's wonderful to get out each afternoon, whether blazing sun or driving rain, and have him hit balls at me like I'm some demented golden retriever. Is it father-son bonding or indentured servitude?” He sucked his lip. “I know what Big Chuck would say. What would you say?”

I stared at the comet on the screen saver. I'd screwed up, but I didn't know how. “Why are you asking me this?”

He looked away. “Sorry. I shouldn't have. Just thought maybe you'd understand.” He closed his notebook, reaching for the racket. “Guess I was wrong.”

“No.” I restrained myself from physically stopping him. “No. I do understand.” And I did. I knew everything there was to know about trying to meet parents' impossible expectations. “But…”

He smiled, whirling the racket's grip between his knees. “Hmm?”

“Why are you talking to me?” I fidgeted. “I mean, people aren't knocking themselves over to be my friends.”

“I just told you why.”

“Oh.” I guessed I hadn't heard him.

“
We're
going to be friends, Paul. That's my point. That's what I wanted to talk about.” He met my eyes. “We're too much alike not to be friends.”

I stared at him, and he nodded. He stood, gathered his books, the racket, and started for the door. “Go on, Paul. Your mom's waiting.”

Had I offended him? I wasn't sure.

“She always leaves at four fifteen, doesn't she? It's about that now.” He gestured toward the clock. Twenty after. “See you tomorrow, Paul. Before, maybe. Maybe I'll stop by.”

“You know where I live?”

“I told you. I know everything.”

And without saying good-bye, he left. By the time I reached the exit, there was only Mom, staring at me, all worried.

But today, for once, I didn't care.

That night, I thought I saw Dad. His tires skidded through the rush of dead leaves and asphalt. He was driving crazy, like Mom used to yell about. Running footsteps. Then, he was at my window.

Knock, knock, knock
.

My pillow was over my head. I smelled Downy, its waves of softness lulling my brain to sleep.
Sleep
.

Knock, knock, knock
. Louder.

“What?”

“Come here.”

I rose, cracked open the blinds, then recoiled at his face. One side was missing, blown away. One eye stared. The other wasn't there.

“Let me in, Paul.”

“But you're dead.”

Through the window, streetlights glowed like cigarette butts through taller oaks. I glanced around. I was back in my own room at our house in North Carolina. Mom was on the stairs. Had she killed him? I opened the window. A rush of silvery air. Moonlight flooded through, and Dad stepped inside. His body was unscathed. His face shone, red with blood, white with bone in the dimness.

He started to speak. It seemed a struggle, his lips barely hanging from his skull. Then, Mom was there.

“Leave us alone, Glenn. We've made a fresh start.” She carried a shotgun. She clutched at me, cooing, “Sorry, sweetheart. It was him or you.”

Dad shoved her aside. “He's my son too, Laura.”

“I need him more. He's mine.” I heard the click of the trigger.

Knock, knock, knock
…

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. I was alone. In Miami.

Knock, knock, knock
… “Richmond!”

“Someone left garbage out here.”

“
Nice
neighborhood.”

“Tell Charlie he ain't here.”

The digital clock shone 1:56. I fumbled for the light, hit the lampshade. It crashed to the floor, and I stumbled across the dark room.

The face across the glass was familiar, but my two-
A.M.
brain couldn't place it. I registered light hair, goofy grin. Behind him, shadowy trees, mostly burned-out streetlights. Another person.

“Charlie's waiting downstairs.”

I recognized him then. Randy Meade, the guy Charlie called Meat. The taller shadow behind him, Gray St. John. Charlie's friends. Guess I dozed off again, staring at them. Meat banged the window. “Charlie's waiting.”